


Lay Your Hands on Me

by MissFiction



Series: Amelie Trevelyan Rutherford [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Heterosexual Sex, Intoxication, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mutual Pining, Pining, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 06:55:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5238695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissFiction/pseuds/MissFiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisitor gets drunk. Cullen takes care of her. One thing leads to another. feat. Amelie Trevelyan</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lay Your Hands on Me

Drunk was not a state that the Commander particularly liked to find himself in. With all of his other issues, lyrium addiction and the various struggles that came with it, intoxication proved not to be a good mix. Cullen found himself unwilling to succumb any more to the wilful abandonment of his mental faculties. He could count on one hand the times that he had been truly intoxicated, and that was a fact he prided himself on. Even in his youth he had not been one to take spirits, or ale, or wines, even when his fellow Templars would partake. Generally he found himself tasked with keeping the men together and not allowing them to wander too far off lest they get themselves into trouble.

It was not exactly the easiest job, either. Babysitting small children could be a handful, as he had discovered from only _helping_ with his infant brother and sister, but grown men halfway in the bottle were so much worse. They would not stay put where you left them, could not keep their voices down, and always seemed like their liquid courage left them spoiling for a fight, with whom being as irrelevant as whether or not they kept their breeches on. 

Much to his chagrin, he found himself in a similar situation.

Amelie, it turned out, was a very troublesome drunk. She had returned with her party and, he suspected with Iron Bull as the ringleader, headed straight to the pub for celebrations. Only after a few drinks she had suddenly found herself atop a table, shouting at the top of her lungs with the bard. Her party toasted to her song and hearty laughter filled the warmly lit room. He could make out a few words like sounded like lyrics to a well-known folk song he'd heard a few times around Skyhold, but it was severely butchered and tuneless. Amelie was a grown woman and it was not as though Cullen really  _had_ to keep an eye on her the way he had  _had_ to watch his fellow Templars but he found that he didn't mind when it was her. 

_As the Commander,_ he reasoned feebly,  _it is imperative that he ensure the safety of the Inquisitor._ That was all. Truly. 

He kept himself to the side, seated near the door so he could keep an eye on who was present and leaving their current party. He did his best to keep it private, close friends of the Inquisitor essentially the only ones he could trust not to take advantage of her inebriated state. Plus it allowed him to send any stray troops looking to get piss-drunk back to the barracks, making him several different people's least favourite person that night.

Much to his fortune, he hadn't been noticed yet. He would prefer to keep a watchful eye on the room from this vantage point since it gave him scope of the whole room, though he might be able to keep better track of the Inquisitor herself if he drew a little closer. Of course, he might get swept away in the celebration if he even tried. Bull sat at the table the Inquisitor currently had her feet dancing on, his voice carrying even across the room in encouragement. Dorian was at her side, holding one of her hands, the one that wasn't still gripping a bottle, to help her keep her balance, and encouraging her with his own drunken rendition of the same tune. Varric sat nearby, penning something into his parchment, but by no means was he remotely sober as indicated by the number of glasses pushed to the end of the table in front of him. Sera's feet could be seen poking out from under the table. Blackwall looked much like Cullen himself, quietly keeping to himself across the room as though he were also keeping a eye on his party, though Cullen suspected that his apparent focus was only because he was literally already asleep over there. The rest of their friends had already retired, but the tavern buzzed with activity from the other residents of Skyhold even still, at this late hour.

“Spying, Commander?”

He jumped and swung 'round to look at the red-headed spymaster. Leliana stared down at him mischievously, her eyes glinting like she knew a great secret and wanted to lord it over him. He flushed despite himself. He was doing nothing wrong. She couldn't prove anything.

“Good evening,” he said eventually. Leliana bade him the same, sitting down at his table and following his gaze.

She smirked at the Inquisitor's antics, whom had let go of Dorian's steadying hand and jumped from the table. Amelie could be seen from time to time weaving in and out of the mobs of bodies all dancing around the tavern to the jaunty tune being fiddled from somewhere in the middle of it all. Cullen adjusted his seat, trying to get an angle that would allow him to maintain visual but froze when Leliana laughed softly at him. He remembered himself and relaxed back in his seat, clearing his throat, feigning disinterest.

“You know,” she said quietly, leaning in on her forearms and pulling her hood down. She paused, waiting until he tore his eyes from the Inquisitor and gave her his full attention. “I travelled with the Hero of Ferelden during the fifth Blight. You know this, yes? I thought it was my purpose. To work with her. To help her. I had a vision and believed that it was my purpose in life, given to me by the Maker.”

Amidst the noise of the room, Cullen could barely hear her. He furrowed his brow in concentration. He had heard stories of the Hero of Ferelden before, had met her once himself in a dark time of his life. But most of what he knew had come from Leliana herself when she was in the mood to tell stories. To find her in the mood to share was uncommon these days, however, and he could not figure out why she had chosen now of all times.

“Excuse me?”

“I am only saying, I spent a great deal of time with her but I never revealed my feelings for her. For some strange sense of duty, perhaps. And she married another. I am happy for her of course, they were– are– both my dear friends, but I often wonder what might have been. Perhaps nothing, true, but I shall never know for certain.”

Cullen bristled, his heart throbbing painfully at what her allegory implied for reasons he would not admit to himself. To the spy master's sad smile he said nothing. Not knowing what else to do, he awkwardly reached out to pat her hand sympathetically.

She laughed softly.

“Oh, I am not so sad any longer, Commander; I am merely stating a fact. Sometimes we think we are doing right by someone and this is a good and noble thing. But we should not be so noble that we sacrifice our own chances at happiness.” Her cheeky smile had returned.

She drew her hood back up before crossing the bar and seating herself with Josephine across the tavern, who had herself come at the insistence of the Inquisitor but had not had anything to drink so far as he could tell. Leliana whispered something in her ear before she sat down, and Josie turned her gaze towards him with a sly smile. Cullen quickly turned his gaze away and attempted to find the Inquisitor amongst the throngs of people again.

Amelie had a joyous look on her face when he found her again. She swung around with various people in a flurry of skirts as she danced on the arms of several people a minute. Her cheeks were flushed with a healthy glow he could see from clear across the room not only from the alcohol but from the exertion. She caught him gazing at her while she was spinning with a man twice her age and almost double her size, and paused to wave at him with an excited skip; she pushed to her toes to make sure he saw her through the crowd, not realizing that he had been keeping an eye on her anyways. He raised his hand in greeting and she grinned excitedly.

When the small dark haired woman moved to exit the dancing group and come towards him his heart squeezed in his chest but she was caught 'round the waist once more by another young man who performed several complex steps and spun her in his arms. She threw her head back in a musical laugh that he could hear even over the din of the party.

Cullen rose to his feet then, and made his way towards Varric who had set his pen down for a moment and was watching them all with his chin in his palm. Before he could even speak a would, the crafty dwarf had him figured out and waved him off.

“I'll keep an eye on her, and I'll make sure she gets to her room safe. And _alone._ Good night, Curly.”

Though he was a little bit surprised, he cleared his throat and offered a weak smile, “Thank you. Good night, Varric.”

When he took his leave, Amelie was standing with her hand above her breast as though trying to press her rapid heartbeat into calming. That same man who had gracefully spun her had drawn her aside and back to a table where he spoke quietly and intimately into her ear. Cullen caught her eye and offered her a brief salute before he turned and left the establishment.

After he closed the door he could still hear the noise from inside just as clearly. Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose briefly as he realized that throbbing in his head was from a stirring headache. The rest of Skyhold seemed dark in comparison, and the courtyards were barren save for a few people ambling about. Likely those who had also left the party, because there didn't seem to be another living soul around save for them.

Wearily he began the trek up the stone staircase to his office. It had been silly of him to feel as though he needed to take on a guardian role tonight anyways; Amelie was among friends who were always looking out for her. He need not hover. His stomach twisted as he thought again about how close that man had been to her, but it was none of his business.

“Cullen? Cullen, wait!”

He froze.

“Inquisitor?” he called back. He peered over the ledge of the battlements. There she was, gazing up the wall with confused eyes, which immediately brightened when she caught sight of him. She waved excitedly. He smiled back at her before he grew concerned.

“Don't move,” he called down, when he noticed she was attempting to ascend the stairs and stumbled partway up. She leaned heavily against the wall for a moment. “I'll come down, wait there.”

When he reached her, her hands reached out for his. He held them up, confused, and allowed her to when she decided to take them into her smaller ones and used them to pull him closer. Her fingertips were cold against his warm skin. Her hands were always cold, though. At least, they were whenever he happened to accidentally brush her fingers while passing her papers. They stood like that for a few moments. Suddenly, she swung them around and swayed gently, as though she were dancing slowly with him without moving her feet to the music they could still hear though it was a fair distance away. Her face still held that healthy glow, but her eyes were soft and vaguely sleepy now that she was away from the stream of energy.

She stared up at at him with a pout when he didn't follow her lead.

“You left without saying good-bye!” she accused.

His eyes dropped to her pink lips, twisted in that expression. He wanted to kiss her.

“Apologies, Inquisitor,” he said instead.

She laughed suddenly, squeezing his fingers, “Do you even _know_ my name, Cullen? Sometimes I wonder, you never use it!”

“Amelie.” He said pointlessly, feeling a little foolish.

For a moment she seemed satisfied and took her hands from his, though he wanted to hold on to her a little longer. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck nervously while she used her free hands to gather the loose hair off her neck and twist it into a make-shift bun. Cullen turned his eyes away and looked back at the tavern to resist the temptation of gazing at the bare skin of her throat and collarbones. He noted that no one had followed their leader out and it sounded as though no one had really noticed her absence.

He bit at the inside of his cheek before asking her what had happened to the man she had been dancing with. She gave him an odd look, before laying one of her hands on his chest. His hovered uselessly in the air where she let it go.

“I danced with a lot of men,” she told him, whispering as though it were some sort of secret she was sharing. “A lot of men want to dance with me.” She paused when he nodded and agreed that he had seen her with several partners over the evening. She ignored him when he specified which partner he meant. “Not you, though, I did not dance with you. _You_ didn't want to dance with me.”

Cullen felt the air stick in his lungs a little bit. She sounded angry and perhaps a little bit hurt about the fact, but her expression softened again almost immediately into a practised passive look. A diplomatic strategy Josephine had coached her in, no doubt. Amelie sighed deeply and passed her hand over her face.

“I'm still drunk,” she told him.

He decided to let everything she had said go, she had made a good point. With as much alcohol as she had consumed and her slight size, it was pointless to try and analyze anything she said as having any real meaning. Her expressions were all askew and her tone seemed to bounce all over the place. Instead he chuckled, and offered her his hand again. She took it without a thought and leaned against his shoulder as if she was suddenly bone weary.

“Would you like me to accompany you to your room?” he asked her. He sort of hoped that she would say no, or would say that the tavern would be just as well, because her proximity and the way she spoke to him was sending his mind running a mile a minute. Leliana's words echoed in his head and he tried not to physically shake them out lest he look mad.

After a moment's silence she nodded. Cullen felt her agreement more than saw it, with her face pressed into his shoulder just so. He wrapped her with a protective arm and lead her across the courtyard to the larger stairs that would leave to her bedroom. Amelie moved quietly and allowed herself to be lead. He could feel her sagging slightly but she seemed determined not to lean on him too heavily as they walked.

 

o O o

 

It took a few minutes longer to reach her room than it might have if Amelie had not had so much to drink that night. As they walked her steps grew heavier. By the time they were outside her door she was holding her stomach and leaning against the walls as they moved. Amelie had required them to pause a few times so she could catch her breath or to stop the world from spinning, she said. Cullen felt that same old responsibility he used to feel for his Templar comrades kick in and waited patiently for her. She groaned softly as her stomach churned and he rubbed her back soothingly until she was ready to move on.

“I'm never drinking again,” she told him mournfully, fishing her key clumsily out of her pocket and handing it to him, waiting for Cullen to open her door for her.

He snorted. “With all due respect, Inquisitor, I will believe that when I see it.”

She gave him a weak glare and proceeded through the door when he held it open for her. When he didn't enter the threshold immediately she turned and beckoned him in. Cullen hesitantly closed the door behind them.

Her room was unusually tidy, he deduced based on the very few other times he had actually been inside it, but it had been quite some time since she had used it last. Only the desk in the corner betrayed her presence. It was piled high with unanswered letters and had several inkwells of various colour and content scattered about. Amelie had perched herself on the edge of her bed, but noticed him looking and wrinkled her nose in distaste.

“Proposals. Mostly.” She sounded very tired. “Josie keeps bringing them to me, it seems as though there are more with each passing day. Lord Orsino has sent four so far, each more superfluous than the last.”

Cullen found himself surprised by this information, though he was not sure why. Their Inquisitor was young, certainly beautiful, and one of the greatest united diplomatic powers in Thedas at the present moment. He could think of no one more presently available nor one who was equally sought after. His stomach twisted painfully when he glanced at the envelopes again. He picked one up and was comforted by the fact that it seemed like very few of them had even been opened. Those that had seemed to have been read had been tossed aside.

“...Anything promising?” he asked after a pregnant pause.

She sized him up for a moment, and Cullen felt his face grow hot under her interrogating stare, before answering with a definite “No.”

He felt embarrassment rise in his throat when she said nothing more and focused all her attention on trying to unlace her shoes so she could take them off. Her clumsy fingers fumbled with the laces. She groaned miserably before flopping backwards into the middle of the bed, covering her face with her arms. Cullen watched her quietly, glancing back at the door and wondering if he should go. It seemed the longer he hovered the worse her mood seemed to become; he couldn't help but feel like his presence was agitating her. Her expression was stony, a far cry from the laughter he had witnessed in the tavern. Even from where he stood from across the room he could see her bottom lip trembling.

It struck him that she was trying to undress and here he was, gawking around her room like a fool. Cullen immediately moved towards the door, cursing softly under his breath.

“I... I–I should go,” he murmured. “Apologies, Inquis– Amelie. Rest well, I''ll–”

“Wait.”

She didn't sit up, but her voice had that commanding tone she took whenever she had to take control of a situation. Cullen found himself frozen automatically. “Help me? I'm too– I'm drunk. Please.” She kicked her foot in the air and held it there, waiting for him. Not seeing any other choice, he walked to the edge of the bed and started undoing the thin laces.

After a few long moments of picking at the knots he was tugging the laces through the eyes so they would loosen enough to remove them. He cradled her ankle delicately with the pads of his fingers, slowly easing the shoe off. Her dark eyes stayed trained on him, peeking up from underneath her arm, her hair spread wildly on the sheets below her. When he stopped moving entirely she sat up on her elbows to look at him more directly. He took the shoe off and placed it at the edge of her bed, before taking her other ankle in much the same gentle way when she offered it to him.

Amelie watched him with a strange, warm fascination. Her expression was unreadable, but she watched his every move with a particular curiosity.

“You are a handsome man,” she murmured. His ears burned. She repeated herself louder, when he did not respond.

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” he breathed. Both of her shoes were placed on the ground now, but he still held her foot in his hand. Without thinking, distracted by the magnetic gaze that practically crackled between them, he squeezed the tendon between his forefinger and thumb. When she hissed he readjusted his thumb, and when he applied the same pressure again this time she sighed softly.

He knew he should leave; it was highly inappropriate for him as her Commander to be standing in her chambers and helping her to undress. Yet, he couldn't make his feet move. Amelie stared up at him, seemingly comprehending his every move with quiet interest and he found that he didn't _want_ to leave. The thought made his mouth dry, but he had to make a decision. After a few seconds he took her foot more firmly, dragging her physically closer to the edge of the bed with a steadying hand placed on her calf to prevent him from straining the muscle. She slid easily along the fabric of the covers with a small noise of surprise. He rolled Amelie's foot in his hand and pressed the heel of his hand firmly into its sole. 

His breath felt like it had been stolen straight from his lungs when she moaned his name at the contact.

“Cullen!” gasped Amelie. She tugged her leg, knee towards her chest and presumably away from him; he let go without any resistance. She huffed, as though he had done something wrong but her glowing red countenance implied otherwise.

“I should go,” he said again. Amelie shook her head. She sat up suddenly and turned her back to him without a word, drawing her hair over one shoulder to reveal the tightly knotted strings of her dress. The fabric laid over top of a similarly fastened corset.

“I still need help,” she whispered.

“Then I'll get Leliana for you. Or Josephine, perhaps? Someone else... it's not appropriate for me to... undress you...” This seemed like such an odd statement for him to make. She looked up at him with a piercing gaze over her shoulder.

“I'm asking  _you_ to help me. Do you not... want to?”

Maker's Breath. Of course he wanted to, he had been captivated by their Inquisitor from the moment he had laid eyes upon her. The first time she smiled at him, the first time she showed an interest in the training and well-being of those who survived Haven. The moment she fully intended to sacrifice her own ensured safety for the Order that had captured and accused her. He could think of a thousand moments in time he had been impressed with and enraptured by the slight redhead before him. How on Earth had he ended up here, with her essentially offering herself to him? Did she have any idea what the implications of what she was doing even were, or was this solely caused by the alcohol she had consumed?

“I want to...” he heard himself say, completely unbidden. Amelie inhaled sharply and turned her back to him again. Cullen could see a flush creeping slowly up her throat as she waited patiently. She jumped when his palms laid flat against her shoulders. He pushed the sleeve down her shoulder and pressed his mouth to it reverently.

Amelie glanced over her shoulder at him but did not say anything, protest, encouragement, or otherwise. When his fingers reached for the laces of her dress they fumbled, but the soft silk pulled apart easily. Her hands came up to catch the fabric when it attempted to fall about her waist, cupping it to her breasts though her corset and slip underneath still remained. He laid his hand against the small of her back, and then dipped around her small waist. She shivered, trembled.

The dress fell from her fingers and revealed her full breasts that strained against the confines of her corset. His fingers never stopped until he had eased this open too and it fell about her hips. Amelie took his hands gently in hers and guided them to hold her in his palms. His thumb brushes a rosy nipple and she inhales sharply.

“Cullen...” she whispered. He leaned his forehead against her shoulder blade.

“Amelie,” he murmured back, reverent.

“I think I'm in love with you.”

His chest explodes with colour. The gravity that stirs between them lifts and he feels somewhat lighter, brighter than he has in years. All at once they're kissing, her soft expressive mouth is pressing against his and she's pressing herself further into his hands. Those rough hands roam all of the exposed skin she has, and Amelie whimpers helplessly as he practically devours her. She turns towards him and draws up to her knees, holding his jaw in those cold fingertips so she can tilt his face back to swipe her tongue forward against his. Cullen holds her hips, her waist, lays a hand at her throat, drifts it down to her breast where he can feel her heart hammering away just like his.

“I am,” he tells her, “I love you. I've never felt...  _anything_ like this before.” He breathes out his affirmation, as if speaking louder might shatter this moment between them. Her lips find his again. He kisses back fervently, tasting sweet alcohol and smell a flowery scent that clings to her skin. Her dress rests in swathes of pale blue fabric around her hips and then her ankles as she carefully eases herself out of it. Amelie's hands scrape through his hair, down his back, tugging the top layers of clothing in her wake.

Before long they're lying together, bare, and breathing each other in. He lays particular bite marks around her collarbones, she bends and melts against his finger tips. When he finally,  _finally_ presses the head of his cock into her, every sound aside from those the pass through her red bitten lips falls away. His hands press against her stomach to keep her laying back and accepting of all his frenzied movements. He barely registers anything resembling language coming from that sweet mouth, all he knows is that she's making these soft noises below him, and he wants her to make  _more._ Amelie meets his every thrust with equal intensity. It leaves him breathless. When her back arches against him and she cries his name in a voice he's never heard her use before it is not long before he finds himself spent. 

 

When Cullen wakes up, before the slight redhead who remains where she had been the night before on his left side, she's still fast asleep against him. If he's honest with himself, he's a little surprised to see her there. When he looks around the room, which is only barely visible with the pale light that the rising sun has only just started to yawn into the sky, he's surprised to find himself still there. Amelie murmurs quietly in her sleep and he presses a thumb to her reddened lips, which she unconsciously kisses. He grins to himself.

She's asleep beside him, clinging to his waist as though she had been afraid in the middle of the night that he might try to abandon her.

“Is it morning yet?” she asks him, without opening her eyes.

“No,” he tells her, trying to keep the surprise out of his low, affectionate tone, “not yet.”

“Then go back to sleep. That's an order.”

Her grip on him tightens, and she peers up at him defiantly as she thinks that he might try to fight her on this. He remembers that she's a warrior. She has more strength in her than he remembers sometimes, but he still slips his arm under her and rolls her tightly against his chest anyways. He kisses her, slowly, with his tongue moving languidly against hers for a few long seconds, before she pushes him away with the palm of her strangely warm hands, panting to gather her breath, and then nuzzling into his neck with her cold nose.

“Yes, Amelie,” he chuckles quietly to himself. She's warm and tangible against him. He cannot wait to wake up with her again in only a few hours time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know. I should be doing Across the Hall. My apologies, but school has been kicking my ass lately! This is sort of an older one, but it's been a long time since I posted so I touched it up to fill the gap a little. Until next time!


End file.
